Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  “I see,” Carlo said. Then he smiled. “And now you are here, babysitting for friends, I hear.”

  News definitely traveled fast in Positano.

  “Yes, babysitting,” I answered. “I wish—” and then I caught myself. I had been going to complain about my missed Tahoe trip, and then realized how that would sound to him.

  “You wish what?” Carlo asked, tilting his head to one side. My heart fluttered.

  Stuck. Now I was stuck. Then, I had an inspiration. “Ummm, I wish you could give me and the Cowans a tour of your family’s limoncello factory.” Carlo looked puzzled for a moment, but I hurried on. “They’ve been wanting to see one, and Signor Crudele, our landlord, told us that your family’s factory is one of the best.”

  “Ah, the tourists,” he said. “Because of your Italian, I keep forgetting you are a tourist.”

  An American visiting during the holidays—that’s exactly what I wanted to be, wasn’t it? “Sure,” I said, wondering why I was so annoyed about being labeled a ‘tourist.’ “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble,” Carlo said, with a shrug. “You can come anytime. We do not usually give the tours, but for you,” he smiled at me, and my heart stopped, “of course. We are in production right now, so it’s a good time. Just go to the front reception and tell them who you are.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Now, Carrie would be off my back, for a while at least, and I might score a few points with Nicole and Phil. And I had the opportunity to spend more time with Carlo. He wasn’t as prickly as I had first thought. As Giovanni had said, Carlo was immersed in his family’s business. At Sonoma High, serious guys—with whom you could actually hold a conversation—were hard to find. I had drawn the line at joining the geek clubs, even though I preferred the thoughtful, intellectual type to the fun, jock guys in Morgan’s group. The American guys were cute, but conversations often came to a sudden stop. Carlo, though, was different, very different, and very special. He obviously loved what he did, and that energy permeated his whole being. His smile and his enthusiastic conversation all demonstrated his deep commitment to a business that really mattered to him and his family. He was so different from anyone I’d met at Sonoma High.

  Silence fell and for a moment we just stared at each other. I was so utterly mesmerized by his face that every conversational thought I had flew right out of my head. I desperately looked around for someone else to talk to, even though I could have easily spent the entire evening just gazing greedily into his warm brown eyes. To my surprise, Carlo grabbed my hand. His hand was strong and warm and my pulse fluttered a little.

  “Come,” Carlo said. “You’re going to taste some of our limoncello.” He pulled me through the crowded restaurant toward the bar, and I saw Valentina glance over at me through the crowd.

  At Carlo’s request, the bartender poured golden limoncello into two small, frosty glasses on the counter.

  “Basta!” I said, gesturing to the bartender. “Enough!” I knew that a full glass of limoncello would send me flying, and I didn’t need to be flying in this environment, particularly since Phil would arrive within a half hour to walk me home.

  Carlo and the bartender grinned and exchanged a rapid volley of Italian that I could barely understand. I gathered enough to realize that the bartender was asking Carlo if he was chasing skirts again. I smiled weakly. Italian guys were Italian guys and they thought nothing of doing exactly that—skirt chasing and doing so in a very insistent manner, as if to say “you don’t know what you’re missing!” I knew I’d better watch myself, even though Carlo seemed like a good person. Giovanni, on the other hand, definitely seemed to be more of the typical flirt, and we hadn’t had a meaningful conversation yet, despite our conversation about The System. So far, Giovanni had avoided any serious topics.

  “Cin-cin!” Carlo said with a smile, raising his tiny glass. I did the same and we clinked our glasses together.

  I took a sip of the potent lemony liqueur and could immediately feel it warming up my insides. It was deliciously addictive, tasting like syrupy lemonade with a huge punch. One sip was going to be quite enough. I knew that I’d have to be very diplomatic about my refusal to drink any more. In Italy, politeness was everything and I did not want to mistakenly cause offense again! In the States, I had had to force myself to be less polite when we moved to Sonoma—it was kind of crazy! My friends would giggle at my formal greetings and salutations—to adults and teens alike. “Chill, Alex,” they would say, after I’d politely said: ‘How do you do? It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ “No one does that stuff here!”

  Phil was expected any minute, and I was a little worried about his reaction if he should see me bellying up to the bar, drinking limoncello. Would he send me back to California? Could I still make it to Tahoe? That is, if Morgan or anyone still wanted me there. I winced, knowing that even after only six months in the U.S., I had already seen how changeable friendships could be, fueled by social media that seemed so much more important to kids in the U.S. than in Italy. I could already imagine Morgan’s Instagram posts from this Tahoe trip: kids laughing, having a great time, and none of the posts would have me in them. Lots of people at Sonoma High would see them, too, and figure I was out of the group. Because I’d wrecked her plans, would Morgan decide my friendship wasn’t worth the work of trying to turn me back into an American?

  Giovanni elbowed his way between us and grinned at the glasses of limoncello in our hands. “Aha!” he said. “The Bertolucci family product!” Lifting up his empty wine glass, he looked through it and winked. “So, it is improving your Italian?”

  “This Italian,” Carlo said, pointing to himself with his thumb, “needs no improvement.”

  Carlo was definitely not my Italian, but his reply was quick-witted, and I had to giggle.

  “Really?” Giovanni retorted with a wry grin. “There is always room for improvement, especially in business. You should know that.”

  Carlo’s face became suddenly serious. “No, in truth, you should know,” he replied evenly. “You are always looking for the next big chance to improve things in your business.” What was going on, here? I wondered, confused by the simmering air of antagonism that had suddenly materialized between these two young men.

  Now it was Giovanni’s turn to scowl. “Enough!” he said curtly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s all just business. It’s the way it is. You know that.”

  Carlo smiled and shrugged. “Business, business,” he said. “I just stick to mine and you mind yours—bada agli affari tuoi. Okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” Giovanni said, smiling at me with another shrug. I had forgotten how many times Italians shrugged, and it made me want to smile. Shrugs were part of life in Italy, signaling a sort of easy-going acceptance. “I think Valentina needs some attention—I will let you two limoncello aficionados talk.” He started to walk away and then turned back. “And it just may improve your Italian!” he added, grinning at me.

  I felt irritated at Giovanni’s comment that my Italian could be improved, but then I thought that I should be glad that people could tell I wasn’t a real Italian because my Italian wasn’t absolutely, absolutely perfect. Didn’t I want to be completely, one hundred percent recognizable as an American?

  Carlo sighed and drank another swallow of limoncello. “This is really good, if I do say so myself.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said, taking another tiny sip. “What did Giovanni mean when he said it was all just business?”

  Carlo glanced over at the bartender, but he was busy down at the end of the bar, talking to an older couple. “You have heard of the Camorra—The System?” he asked, bending his head closer to mine. I nodded, looking around the crowded room, trying not to seem too obvious or nervous, which I was. “The Amalfi Coast has its own version, the Sacra Lista,” Carlo said.

  “That was what Giovanni told me. He said it was just b
usiness and they didn’t”—I paused and lowered my voice—“kill people. But, I saw a street accident today, and it seemed like more than just ‘business’ when the drivers were yelling at each other. One told the other that he would get The System after him.”

  Carlo frowned and twirled the glass of limoncello on the bar counter. “It was stupid of them to yell about it in the street. Part of it is business, yes, an ugly business. Giovanni likes to pretend that the other side doesn’t exist—the extortion, the money laundering, the drug and women trafficking, and the small business owners who get forced out and lose everything. And then there is also the violence and the killing.”

  “Violence?” I squeaked. “Killing?” I suddenly felt cold, in spite of the warm restaurant. “What does the Sacra Lista do exactly?”

  “Let’s say you own a small restaurant or a store,” Carlo said, leaning in to speak more quietly in my ear. “You need to buy from distributors—Parmigiano, pasta, gelato, olive oil, things like that. A distributor comes to you and says he can get these things at a discount for you, but you must buy only from him, not from any other distributors.”

  “And?” I asked. “What’s wrong with that? You’re getting a discount, right?” Wait a second, I told myself and stopped. This arrangement sounded exactly like what Dad had described between the Italian wineries and the distributors.

  “It sounds all right on the surface,” Carlo replied evenly, “but you have to realize that the reason the distributor can do this is that he has already cut a deal with the producers—the factory who makes the Parmigiano Reggiano, say—and he owns nearly all the trucks that the producers can use to ship their supplies. So, the producers are stuck, too—they have to use him as a distributor for the delivery, because otherwise they have no trucks and no way to get their goods to you. And, if you say no to this distributor, things will start to happen to you. Other restaurants using his discounted Parmigiano can charge customers less, but you are paying more, so you can’t discount your prices. People stop coming to buy from you, and you lose business. You can go out of business.”

  “That sounds really wrong,” I said.

  “Also, sometimes,” Carlo continued, “if you do not go along with it, the state inspectors can come suddenly and find rats in your kitchen or mice droppings in your storeroom.”

  He stopped and looked at me for a moment. Loud conversation swirled around us.

  “You understand how the inspectors know exactly when to come, and how they know exactly what they will find?” He shrugged again, but his dark gaze was intent on mine. “You are shut down. Or you are beaten. Some stranger picks a fight with you, and suddenly you are in hospital with tubes sticking out of you. Or, one of your family members is kidnapped, and you won’t get them back—or back in one piece, I should say—unless you give in to the Sacra Lista.”

  My palms began to sweat. Was I really hearing this?

  Carlo continued, his voice low in the noisy room, “It happened to our family friends, the Albaneses, last year. It was horrible.” His face clouded over and his mouth turned down. “This is how the Sacra Lista does business. As long as you play by their rules, you are okay. It’s wrong, but it’s the way it is. Sometimes, you can challenge them, but you need help.”

  “They sound very powerful—and dangerous,” I said, shivering. “But they’re not here in Positano?” Please say they are not, I begged silently.

  Carlo took a sip of his limoncello before saying simply, gravely, “They are here.”

  Quickly, I ran over Carlo’s words in my head. Wasn’t that what Dad was really doing? Challenging organized crime, no matter what the organization? Now, I prayed that this Sacra Lista didn’t make its way to the U.S., or get involved with any of the wine distributors that Ralf used. The thought of Dad running into these criminals petrified me with fear.

  But, what really scared me was the thought that one of these Sacra Lista guys here in Positano would find out about Dad’s investigation—or even find out that I was a ‘winery kid,’ as my Sonoma friends called me. Who knew what ideas that might give them? I clenched my fists, then drew a deep breath. The Sacra Lista would stop at nothing to make sure they got what they wanted. And if what they wanted were California wineries, some innocent teenage girl could run the risk of playing right into their hands. That could be me, if I wasn’t exceedingly careful.

  “Alessandra!” Phil’s voice called from the restaurant doorway. Startled, I quickly turned to shield the limoncello glass from his view; Carlo promptly poured the rest into his own glass. I gave him a grateful look and he grinned in return. Those eyes—that intense, warm look was going to keep me up at night, I could already tell.

  “Everything all right, Alessandra?” Phil asked, threading his way through the crowd, giving Carlo a piercing glance. He was such a dad! I hid a smile.

  I had to switch gears into English after two solid hours of Italian and it was a bit of a struggle. “Umm, yes, Phil. This is Carlo Bertolucci, remember? We met him here last night. His family owns Bertolucci Limoncello,” I said. “Carlo, you remember Signor Cowan?”

  Phil’s shoulders relaxed. Cute. I’d have to email Mom and Dad and tell them what good care he and Nicole were taking of me. No wonder Mom and Dad didn’t worry about my going to Italy for six weeks with the Cowans.

  I frowned. The Camorra stuff didn’t seem to have bothered Mom and Dad too much—any possible danger probably seemed a lot more distant and far away from across the Atlantic. The Camorra and the Mafia were simply “doing business the Italian way,” in the old way that everyone accepted. Perhaps Mom and Dad also wanted to make sure I didn’t forget my Italian. Did they think I was becoming too American and were afraid that I would reject the Italian culture I had grown up with? If they only knew the truth!

  I swallowed hard. Knowing the Sacra Lista was active right here in Positano—maybe even involved in the restaurant!—was terrifying. No more winery discussions with Carlo, that was for sure—or with anybody else for that matter.

  “Sure, sure,” Phil said, heartily. “I remember Carlo.” He extended his hand and Carlo shook it with a smile.

  “Good evening, Signor Cowan,” Carlo said. “Alessandra asks if you are able to take the tour of our factory, and it will please us for you to come. Any time is good.”

  Phil smiled. “That’s just great! We’ll do it. Thank you very much. Molte grazie,” he added, in an earnest attempt to be courteous.

  “Va bene,” Carlo said, his eyes twinkling at me. “Ci vediamo presto, Signorina.”

  “Perché no,” I said. “Thank you very much. Buona notte.”

  Before I knew what was happening, Carlo gave me the usual two kisses—one on either cheek and, feeling the brush of his lips on my skin, my knees went weak. We’d had a great time together and he had made me feel special, but now I worried that I was falling hard for “Mr. Serious.”

  I found Giovanni and thanked him for inviting me. Valentina was hanging on his arm and didn’t look at all pleased to see me, but when she realized I was leaving, she pasted a smile on her face. As Giovanni gave me the two-kiss salute on my cheeks, I noticed Valentina’s suddenly narrowed eyes. Made a friend there, I thought wryly.

  “Well? How was it?” Phil asked, as we turned into the narrow street in front of the restaurant. There were still plenty of people out, walking and visiting, and the air was filled with the scent of rosemary, lemons, and gardenias. “Did you meet some nice young people? How did your Italian hold up?”

  Nice young people. I tried not to giggle at his phrase. “Uh-huh, I did,” I answered. “Most of them were older than me—at university. But there were a few who are still at a liceo…er, a kind of high school.”

  “And how was the Italian?” Phil asked, as we rounded the corner to climb up another street to our apartment. I could so tell he was a teacher, because he was firing off one question after another.

  �
�It was fine,” I answered. I thought briefly of Giovanni’s comment about my Italian needing improvement, and again felt annoyed. Was I more unsettled by the fact that he thought my Italian needed work or the thought that I had actually wanted my Italian to be perfect? I wasn’t sure.

  And then, there was Carlo. My Italian hadn’t bothered him at all. I didn’t think anything about me bothered him actually, and I loved everything about him. With my fingers, I gently touched my cheek where he had kissed me.

  We passed a grocer and the display of Parmigiano Reggiano and olive oil in the window reminded me of the stranglehold of distributors that Carlo had referred to. With a chill, I remembered the truck in front of the LoPrestis’ restaurant the day we arrived, delivering produce from the Parmalat distributor, and the two boys on motorinos, watching. After what Carlo had told me, I suspected they were connected somehow to the Sacra Lista.

  Was Giovanni in league with the Sacra Lista? Or was he just cooperating because he had been forced to? I remembered Carlo and Giovanni arguing about “business” at the restaurant and, with a shiver, realized that Giovanni knew that Dad worked at a winery and had, in fact, seemed very interested when Phil had first mentioned it at dinner. The more I thought about all of this—about Dad, Carlo, and Giovanni—the more nervous I got. I didn’t need anyone making connections between my dad’s work at the winery and organized crime. If they found out about Dad, what would the Sacra Lista do?

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, I woke around nine. Not a bad adjustment to Italian time, I congratulated myself, even if I had been out late the night before—well, late for a weekday evening in the U.S, not in Italy.

  Carrie was still huddled under the bedsheet, her red hair straggled on the pillow. I got up, brushed my teeth, put on my robe, and wandered out to the living room to see who else was up. I also needed a coffee.